So, I’m not exactly sure why my boss seems to be such a douche. There’s lots of little things he does, and a few big things, but all in all, there’s not just one thing I can put my finger on.

And that makes me wonder if it’s really I who has the issue. It seems every job I have I work for an idiot, a jackass, or a combination of the two. Now, it’s kind of a prerequisite to being in management that you be rather arrogant, so I’m not going to complain about that. Selfishness, however, is a completely different story, as is self-righteousness.

For example, while his wife was stuck in Mexico because he couldn’t get the paperwork together and take the time off until the holiday time, he bitched and moaned about it everyday. Yet when one of the employees only child is going through a tough time (as is he) because they’re going through that horrible waiting process to find out if she actually has cancer or not, he told said employee, “It’s not a big deal. Besides, you need to leave your emotions outside of work.”

Now, in all fairness, the guy I’m currently working for is far from being the only manager who said anything like that. I had a manager in Savannah who told me the same thing, then told me all about her parents and their disease and how they were crippled, and that, no, regardless of the Family and Medical Leave Act I was not, in fact, going to be allowed to take the time off to go to my grandmother’s funeral if she died. It’s never felt better to tell someone “Fuck you, stupid cunt”. And, no, I didn’t lose my job for it, either.

So, all in all, he’s not really that bad of a boss, he’s about par for the course, which makes me wonder: WHAT are they teaching people in business school?

Also, I described my zombie apocalypse survival plan to one of my coworkers just in case it begins while we’re working today, and a couple other people the other day, and, thus far, no one finds it strange that I actually have and action plan for that. Anyone else have an action plan?

That having been said, I’ve been up since 3am and I’m not too happy about it. Of course, it could be because I slept for three days. But I’m a little upset because I have to be to work tonight. It’s okay, that’s what they make sleeping pills for. I might not sleep for a few days, though, after the show I watched on The History Channel.

First of all, it’s The History Channel: Why are they playing shows about what may or may not (although it’s most likely going to happen) occur in the future? A flu pandemic wiped out civilization and the story followed a family as they attempted to survive. Not ideal for bedtime viewing. I’m already terrified to be outside when a plane flies overhead, now I’ve got to be terrified of someone destroying the world because they forgot to wash their hands. Great.

I’m curious how much it costs to build a proper fallout shelter and how many supplies we’d need so the three of us could survive. Depending upon the reason for the Apocalypse, I don’t think I’d have time to collect my aunt from Missouri to make it four, but it’s always better to be better prepared.

I liked how they neglected to mention the President after he was taken to an undisclosed location on Day 19, though. What would happen to world leaders during the fallout of the flu/nuclear war/alien invasion/rise of the zombies?

Ok, I just had to throw my soup away because there was dirt in it. I distinctly remember not including that ingredient when I made it. I guess someone forgot to wash the vegetables in this prepackaged soup. Irritating. But I guess that explains the rather bland, dirty taste of the soup. It all makes so much sense now.

So the other night at work (while working on my day off…yes, I beg for your pity. I am totally shameless and I’m proud of that fact) some chick (who has actually passed out in my parking lot in the middle of pulling into a space because she was partying WAY too hard) bought a bag of sour patch kids and flipped out, screaming, “I DON’T WANT THOSE! I DON’T WANT THOSE! NONONONO!” And I was all, what? So I grab the bag and pick it up and she’s pointing at the glass with the lottery tickets and I was all, “But I’m not trying to sell you lottery tickets” and she’s all, “NONONO! NO WANT! I NO WANT! NOT THOSE! NONONO!” And pointing erratically around me and I’m like, “WHAT DON’T YOU WANT!?” And then she finally, very calmly, says, “That bag is open” as if absolutely nothing that happened had happened at all. And I’m like, “So you want to get a different candy?” And she was like, “No, just a different bag. These are open, see?” THEN she finally points to the white powdery stuff on the counter (which happened to be right next to her purse) and I was like, “THAT’S NOT MY COCAINE!!!!!!” And everyone in the store just looked at me like I was nuts because THEY didn’t have to go wake up Pukey McDroolerson in the parking lot by rocking her car back and forth because the door was locked and then someone came in right afterward and asked why they were humping some poor girls car and no wonder she drove off all crazy and then had to completely explain the entire situation to a man in his 80’s who simply winked and was all, “Yeah, she was kinda cute. I can’t blame you, kid.” Ok, ew, no, gross. And why would humping some random persons car be completely normal to an 80 year old man?

And I happened to walk past the living room while my parents were discussing “The Lady” the other night. Um, okay, what lady? Did some lady stop by today? And my dad was all, “No, there’s just been this lady in the house, walking around,” and I was like, huh? So my mom explains to me that my dad has been seeing this old lady in our house for the past couple of months either just standing by the front door or wandering around the house and it’s totally creeping him out because he thinks his mom who died in 1998 is haunting him and/or coming to take him to the afterlife and I’m all freaked out because anyone who’s seen The Haunting in Connecticut can tell you people only see ghosts when they’re close to death and I REALLY don’t want my dad to die because 1) he’s my dad and B) DO NOT LEAVE ME ALONE WITH MOM FOR SEVERAL YEARS BECAUSE THEN I’LL HAVE TO BE LOCKED AWAY IN A HOME FROM GOING COMPLETELY OFF THE DEEP END AND YES ALL THE YELLING IS NECESSARY HERE!

If you’ve ever lived with your mother past the age of 12 you completely understand where I’m coming from here.

And I realize I haven’t written anything about what I was originally going to write about, hence why the title doesn’t even come close to describing anything in this post. Eh, you’ll just have to wait for it later.

PS: I did the whole spell check thing and it says A) “some” is not really a word and 2) “lady” is biased language and that I should use “woman” in it’s place, but whenever someone called my mom the “Cleaning Woman” when I was little she’d get all mad and start screaming about how she’s not just a woman, she’s a lady, because “Ladies always tweeze their eyebrows and shave their legs” or something…maybe it was really about putting the pinky up while sipping tea. I don’t know, but “woman” is highly offensive to my mom and, also, most restrooms are called “men’s/gent

So, on this whole “I need a new job” thing, I’m totally thinking of taking the great advice I was given and taking the pharmacy job, especially after tonight.

It finally happened, every convenience store clerks (almost) worst fear: I got robbed. But at least my masculinity’s still in tact because:

I didn’t break down/burst into tears/curl into fetal position at the sight of the gun

I was complimented by the Area Manager as having the most “by the book robbery” he’s every seen (yay me, I guess)

I didn’t wet my pants

So, here I sit, at my computer, in dry Fruit of the Looms, very grateful to be alive and unholy.

However, I feel as if I must address the robber personally, so here it is:

Dear Mr. Robber Guy,

Thank you for being so polite and thanking me for offering you a new bag after I dropped the one you gave me. Also, thank you for not shooting me, although, I must say, you weren’t very intimidating, and if that’s what you were going for, I would highly recommend you do a couple of things before you attempt to rob another store. That way, in the future, you won’t come across as such a pansy and will, in fact, come across as the major douche canoe you are.

Here is the numbered list of things you could do to actually seem intimidating, in no particular order of importance:

Grow a couple of inches

I know, it’s not necessarily in your control and has more to do with your parents (who obviously didn’t raise you very well, unless they raised you to terrorize people who are grossly underpaid to clean up other people’s poo and have guns pointed at them so you don’t have to be grossly underpaid to actually pay for your mortgage, your parents tires, electricity/gas, water, cable, etc, in which case they did a bang up job, pardon the pun) and genetics than anything else. There are some great products you can use to make yourself taller, which will also help you in the long run since you’ll be harder to identify if the clerk you’re robbing thinks your 5’8″ instead of the dinky 5’4″ you actually are.

Carry a real gun

This is Texas. In Texas, attempting to rob a convenience store with a .22 caliber pistol makes you seem gay. If you are gay, that’s cool, because I’m bi and I’ll probably see you at the club, bar, or possibly Hot Bodies someday, which would be fine, although, no matter how hot you are, don’t expect me to hook up with you, unless I don’t recognize you, which is unlikely, as I will likely never hook up with another Latin male again, thanks to you (which really pisses me off because I think Latin guys are extremely hot and the last guy I was with was the most polite hookup I’ve ever had in my life, and also the best, so thank you, kind sir, for ruining my sex life even more than it already is). However, if you, in fact, are not gay, might I recommend at the very least a .45 or larger, preferably a Desert Eagle because they look more intimidating, or, better yet, a sawed off shot-gun. I’d definitely have to go with the sawed off shot-gun since you’re going to need it anyway during the zombie apocalypse. And duct tape. You cannot forget the duct tape.

Don’t be polite.

Being polite is extremely cool, and shows just how good you are at what you do, especially in a situation like a robbery where anything could happen and you and I are completely at the whim of the other. I certainly appreciate you being polite, however, you need to sound more authoritative when giving directions to the clerk. Don’t ASK me to give you the money. I mean, sure, you didn’t use any of the question words, but you didn’t exactly order me to give you the money, either. Think about all the robbery scenes you’ve seen in movies. The robbers generally scream at the people, not meekly say “Give me the money”. That’s not okay in a robbery. You gave me the impression that, had it not gone against our corporate policy, I could have said, “No. Now get the FUCK OUT OF MY STORE BEFORE I WHIP YOUR ASS, BITCH!” And then you would have run away all frightened like. Doesn’t make you seem very manly. Just because you have the gun doesn’t make you the bigger man. Especially a .22 (see point 2, above).

In conclusion, Mr. Robber Guy, I’d like to say thank you for being so kind, but please take the advice above so your next robbery attempt is much more successful.

So some totally crazy lady offered me a job working at the pharmacy chain she owns. Like, wow. Who would want me near their drugs? I mean, after all, I was voted “Most Likely to Become a Drug Dealer” in High School. I guess they were right. Maybe High School was an important part of life and wasn’t just about making everyone feel totally awkward at the time where we felt most awkward and vulnerable. Or maybe the people at my school were part of some super secret government experiment to enhance the human brain power and create the greatest soldiers and intelligence officers ever in the history of the world and the drugs the government gave them actually worked and they voted me “Most Likely to Become a Drug Dealer” because they knew that, some day, I would have a career in pharmacies! Or, you know, they could have just voted me that because I used to sell the free coffee creamers from the corner store by the school for a buck a pop and those $.99 grab bags of Dorito’s for $5 and boxes of Girl Scout Cookies I bought for $1 each for $8 each (true story).

Hey, I had the best profit margin out of any seller of any goods in that school, and I am very proud of that accomplishment!

But all this reminiscing has got me thinking: Just how much of what I did in high school affected who I am and what I do today?

For starters, I no longer wear crazy Hawaiian shirts with camo pants and running shoes when trying to hit on girls. I learned that doesn’t work so well. I’ve also become an excellent salesman and can sell almost anything to almost anyone. I’ve thought about car sales, but that’s easier with my selling technique, so it would be too boring. I mean, really, who wants a quick and easy path to being rich? I sure don’t; I wanna have as much fun along the way and struggle quite a bit, living on beans and rice, and having to patch my socks with woven grass because I can’t afford thread. Mmmm-hmmm, yes sir.

So maybe this lady really isn’t completely psycho for wanting me to work for her since I have a great smile and am the most wondrous customer service person on the planet, or she could just be too lazy to go out and hire people so it’s easier to just chat up and hire the strange guy who sells her coffee and cigarettes everyday and also it makes her feel good because she has ginormous tits and wears low cut outfits. Seriously, it’s like a lava lamp, you just can’t take your eyes off them!

But when the zombie apocolypse happens I’ll be able to easily get antibiotics and pain pills so I won’t get a sinus infection and, when I am about to die, I can get totally high and completely enjoy the zombification process, unlike this guy.

So I got up to smoke a cigarrette in the wee hours of Friday morning only to find my living room infested with zombies. No joke, I almost cried. I’m not high so I must be hallucinating, I thought to myself. So I go outside only to find even more monsters out there! There was a werewolf in my neighbors backyard swimming in the pool, vampires in the trees, and serial killers climbing the fences. It was the most frightening experience of my life.

Really, the coal miner guy from My Bloody Valentine was waiting for me when I came back inside, Jason was in the computer room ready to cut my head in half with his machette while I blogged, and Michael Meyers was standing just around the corner while I updated Twitter. But what really got to me were all the zombies.

Thankfully they didn’t smell, or my nose was broken, or it wasn’t able to keep up with my eyes, or it is quite possibly the most sane part of my body. I guess that gives new meaning to “The nose knows”, eh?

But, seriously, if you’re not going to sleep for four days, watching horror movie after slasher flick after apocolypse is not the way to go. Unless you like having zombies over, which is great so long as you have a good supply of brains to offer them, which I didn’t, other than mine, and I don’t think that’s really worth all that much anymore.